


Adagio, in Baker Street

by westernredcedar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing Lessons, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, John is madly in love and doesn't quite know it, M/M, Missing Scenes, So is Sherlock, massive UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can dance perfectly well, thank you."<br/>"You cannot."<br/>"And you are some sort of expert, are you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Just a very tantalizing missing canon scene that I imagine will be written many times in many ways. You should be aware that I have been rolling around in the meta of loudest_subtext_in_television and abrae, and that this work is definitely born of their interpretations of canon at this point. Whee! I also owe bk7brokemybrain much credit for getting me completely obsessed right now, and encouraging this piece.
> 
> ETA: And, now this has become a little series...

"True, John. A waltz can be difficult."

John is scanning the business section of _The Times_ , and Sherlock has been silent and reclined on the sofa for over an hour, so John thinks hard for a moment before, "Sorry, what?"

"You are correct." Sherlock hasn't moved, his gaze aimed at the ceiling, hands tented beneath his jaw.

"I didn't say anything about a waltz." Back to the paper.

"Didn't you?" 

"No."

"Well, you should. You should be terrified." Swings his long legs off the sofa and sits up. John huffs and gives up on reading. He's found four potential cases, but Sherlock hasn't asked. 

"I can dance perfectly well, thank you."

"You cannot."

"And you are some sort of expert, are you?"

Sherlock pinches his lips together and looks away. John feels the stir of frustration in his gut, slaps the paper down on the side table. 

"I can dance, Sherlock."

Sherlock is up now, shuffling papers on his desk. "Adagio, so you'll need to feel confident in the rhythm of each step, not too quick." He's opened a folder, looking at sheet music, John sees, peering over from his chair. 

"What is that?" 

Sherlock slams the cover shut, and looks at John appraisingly, like he can see right through him and know everything. John's skin shivers. 

"You're more march and salute, so we can't expect much. Stand up."

"Why?"

"Just stand up." Sherlock walks towards him, and John sits back in his chair. Sherlock comes right up into his space, and his bare toes brush against John's stocking foot. John has to look up to meet his eyes. 

"Again. Why?"

Eyebrows raised, face still, Sherlock sets his shoulders and frames both arms around an invisible partner. "I'll lead at first."

"You want me to dance with you?" Heart rate suddenly makes itself known. John schools his face to remain skeptical. 

"Yes."

Swallow. "You think this will help me?" Toes still there, touching.

"In seventeen days, everyone you know on this earth will be gathered around a dance floor, eagerly waiting for you to make an utter fool of yourself." Sherlock's arms are creating a space for John to fill, and his eyes are blue and insistent.

"Fine. Fine." John sits up in the chair, forcing Sherlock to release his pose and step back. "But shut the curtains will you?"

"The curtains? Why?" That look, brows drawn together, when he can't understand that people have feelings that vary from his own. John sighs.

"Because I asked, Sherlock." John can feel his pulse in his throat. Sherlock looks at him curiously and then crosses the room to pull the curtains shut, giving John time to rise and regain his composure, tuck in his shirttail and pull down his jumper to lie flat. 

The light gets cut in half, then half again as Sherlock yanks the curtains closed. The room is abruptly dim and serious. John hurries to the lamp and switches it on. 

Sherlock ruffles up his hair and closes one of the buttons on his shirt where he'd opened it at the neck as he lay around his own flat (not John's flat, not anymore) and then he's approaching John head-on. 

"We'll probably need a series of lessons."

"This is absurd, Sherlock."

"You'll thank me when your fifty-seven confirmed guests are staring at you as the music starts. Not to mention me."

"So I'm doing this for you?" 

Sherlock's brows rise for a moment, then he offers up his left hand. "Hand placement," he says, and John nods once, sharp, to get himself moving. "Lead's left in follow's right." 

John has no choice but to take Sherlock's hand. It is warm and dry and about twice the size of his own, and his fingers are swallowed up inside it.

"Lead's right on the shoulder blade of the follow," and he reaches around and John feels the warmth of his hand finding the sharp line of his bone through his jumper. John is not sure where to look, focuses on a small patch of peeling wallpaper in the far corner of the room. 

"Your left arm needs to come up, and rest your hand on my seam…the shoulder seam of my shirt, the shirt of the lead," Sherlock says, his eyes also staring over and away, and John lets his hand barely touch, just the heel of his palm, right on the stitching of Sherlock's white shirt. 

"Elbows up." There's an awkward amount of space between their bodies, John is hardly bending his arm to make an elbow they're so far apart, but he tries, and so does Sherlock, and John can feel all the places they are touching.

"Posture, John. Shoulders down, chin up," and that is so ridiculous that John can finally look at Sherlock and snicker, but Sherlock gives him a stern look back, so John bites his lip and takes a tiny step in to reduce the obvious space between them.

"All right. Now what, Baryshnikov?" John asks, and let's his smile return, because hell, he's in this far. 

"Baryshnikov was not a ballroom dancer, John."

"I imagine he could get it done if he needed to, though."

Sherlock considers this, let's his head cock to the side. "Likely. Although some skills required for professional ballet are in contrast with the skills required for competitive level ballroom." 

John grins. "My wedding is not likely to be a competition, you know."

Sherlock doesn't smile, just stares at John for a long moment, and John doesn't know what that look is, but it makes his pulse rise again. Finally, Sherlock looks away and clears his throat. "No, of course not," he says to the ground. 

"So, what happens next?" John shakes his arms, settles his shoulders, and notices that the space between them has shrunk so that their hips are almost touching. He steps back an inch and swallows. 

Sherlock looks up, face clear again, raising his elbows and setting his shoulders as well. "I thought you knew how to dance, John?"

"Shut up and teach me, you arse."

Box step next, and for long minutes John can't think of anything but steps forward and together and diagonal and listening to Sherlock's voice and looking at his feet, until finally they have established a pattern on the rug enough that he can look up for brief moments without trampling toes.

"I see now why you wanted the curtains closed," Sherlock observes. 

"Shut it, you bastard. This is bloody difficult."

Another few sets, John is very warm, and the room has become very close. 

"Good, John. Now, look into your partner's eyes," Sherlock says, and John follows Sherlock into another box sequence, mindlessly follows the instruction to look up, just another instruction, and then…bollocks.

Bollocks and shite, because blue and ghostly, but not dead, and right there.

John holds the gaze for a few steps, and then can't, he can't, and he steps on Sherlock's toe, and then looks back down. "Damn, sorry."

"It's fine."

They get the count back, and start the box again. John lets his breathing slow, tries looking at Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mary's at work?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, until six."

"Ah."

Silence, and they get into the groove then, John supposes. He counts in his head and doesn't miss a step again. They trod the same square on the rug over and over until his body is just doing it and his eyes can drift up, past the crisp white of Sherlock's shoulder to his throat, ear, stop there for some time. John can feel a small shift, Sherlock has pulled him fractionally closer and is, well, leading, their pattern moving in a very natural way to make a small circle around the rug. To hold on and not lose the rhythm, John feels himself pulling in closer as well, hip touching leg so that he can predict the next move to make, and he can, it's glorious. It only makes sense to try again, and look up.

Eyes meet, and the press of hands and hips and now a bit of belly. Jesus. Sherlock's gaze is steady and true, and John can only hope his is as well as he drifts in the flow and feel, because this is dancing, and Sherlock is bloody great at it. 

They circle the room for a moment, gaze never wavering, waltzing together in the quiet. 

Sherlock abruptly stops, still holding the stance, the space between them now closed, pressed, and a curious (worried?) expression shadows his face. John licks his lips to speak. 

Sherlock starts. "John…" 

"Tea, boys!" The door to the stairwell crashes open and Mrs. Hudson backs in, carrying the tea tray. John shifts away from Sherlock in a flash, dropping his hands and folding his arms over his chest. Sherlock, for his part, does the same, hands into pockets and eyes all doe innocence.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John says, too loud. "Perfect timing."

"Well, what's this? Why is it so dark?" she asks as she squints in the dim light and sets the tray on the table by John's chair. 

"Experiment," says Sherlock, who has taken two long strides over to wrench the curtains open and let in the afternoon light. "Over now." 

"Yes, just an experiment," John adds. He blinks at the brightness, walks to his chair and sits, trying to catch his breath, hoping his flush is not visible. Sherlock darts to the other window and parts the curtains with a dramatic flourish. 

Mrs. Hudson, in the middle of the floor, looks back and forth between them, her eyes narrowed. "Oh," she says, or something close to it, almost too quiet for John to hear. "Oh dear."

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock is teaching me to dance." Sherlock looks over, hard stare. John shakes him off. "You know, for my wedding. My wedding to Mary." John inhales hard, looks away from Sherlock, scratches his nose. "It's meant to be a surprise, so if you wouldn't mind."

Mrs. Hudson, eyes still narrowed, looks between them once more. "Don't you fret, John." She walks to the tea tray and pours a cup, then leans close to John's ear. "Your secret is safe with me."

John is frozen in his chair as Mrs. Hudson bustles out. "What a nice idea, Sherlock, teaching John to dance. I didn't know you knew how."

"What you don't know would fill libraries, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls after her, in the tone John used to dread, but now knows is affection. Like he knows so many things now.

She's gone, and it is quiet for a moment too long. Something hangs in the air between them, and John cannot think of a thing to say. 

Finally, Sherlock reaches for his violin. "Lesson two will involve turns," he says with his back turned, and then he puts bow to strings. John opens his mouth to speak, but it's too late now. He looks back once, then slips away down the stairs, leaving his tea still hot. 

Jesus. _Lesson two_.


	2. Second Lesson

Johns receives the text alert as he sits at his computer catching up on notes between patients. 

**Baker Street. Thursday 4 pm. SH**

They haven't spoken for forty-eight hours. The tightness in John's chest loosens just a fraction. Thursday. Before he can text back, a second message appears. 

**Bring wedding shoes. SH**

John frowns at his phone.

**Which are the wedding shoes?**

**Bag I sent you home with Sunday last. Shoebox inside. SH**

**Haven't looked in that yet.**

**I assumed. SH**

John is thoughtful for a long moment, just staring at the wall, phone held loose in his hand. 

Mary's voice over the intercom. "Mr. Thomas is ready for you now." John rattles himself back to the present.

"Have him come in," he says into the intercom, then types a quick reply. **I'll be there.** Send. Deep breath. Back to work. 

*

John enters quietly into Baker Street on Thursday afternoon. Mrs. Hudson's flat appears dark and unoccupied. For some reason this makes John breathe a little easier. 

He'd stopped at the new house to change after a morning run and then errands, a list (Tesco, dry cleaning, drop off check for the photographer) left by Mary before she went to lunch with her friend (Cameron?) on her way to work. Getting dressed had taken an unaccountably long time, and then there was locating the shoes. John's late, fifteen minutes, so he hops up the stairs two at a time. 

Near the top, voices. Mrs. Hudson providing tea and biscuits, no doubt. 

"John, in here," Sherlock calls before he gets to the door. 

John's heart chooses to accelerate again. He's steeled himself up for this. Hell, the first attempt made it vividly clear how much he needs this before he dances in public. But, Jesus. 

There's music this time, playing faintly as John cracks open the door. 

The curtains are drawn, but every lamp in the flat is on and a fire is lit, though it's mid-afternoon and warm outside. 

"John, hiya." It's not the voice he expects.

"Molly, hi. Hello. Molly." She's sitting in John's chair holding a mug of something. John tries to hide his surprise. It's nice to see her. 

Sherlock stalks in from the kitchen, sipping his coffee. "I invited Molly." 

She stands with that look on her face that John always interprets as guilt. "I did dance classes. In school."

"It is difficult to assess your progress without seeing your form at a distance," Sherlock says. He's fully dressed today, shoes on, suit jacket and tidy hair. He hasn't looked at John, just walked to the iPod to start the music again. 

"I see. Yeah. Good. Thanks, Molly."

"I don’t mind." She walks close to John, skirting past Sherlock. "I'm not very good though, so I hope I can help."

"You'll help," says John. Sherlock sets the music player back in the dock. 

"I only have a few minutes. I have to get to work. He only phoned an hour ago." She whispers this last part, but John sees Sherlock's eyes dart over to them. 

"Sorry I came late," John whispers back.

"Did you bring the shoes?" Sherlock's looking at John now, and John holds up the box, still unopened. "Put them on, no time to lose."

The shoes. Shiny, black, familiar. John sits in his chair and wrenches the stiff leather on to his feet. They fit perfectly. "Sherlock, don't you own these shoes as well?"

"Yes. Are they on?" He's peering out a crack in the curtains, sipping his coffee. 

"Ready." John hops up. "More box step, I imagine?" 

Sherlock turns towards them and gives John a long look. "Molly, you'll have to lead. He's only learned to follow."

"No worries." She smiles as she approaches John and grabs his hand. "We only had girls in class, so I had to do this all the time."

John sets his hands, and Molly helps him adjust to make a good frame with his arms. Sherlock stands to one side, staring at them, and John can just see his knitted brow out of the corner of his eye. 

"Ready?" Molly asks in a whisper. 

"No," says John, and they both grin. John starts to count _one-two-three_ along with the music, and then Molly launches them into the box step. 

It is so completely different than dancing with Sherlock, John cannot believe it is the same sequence of steps. Molly seems to know what she is doing, so he can follow along, but still, it feels like another planet. 

Sherlock's watching them, John sees him every time he manages to look up, which he is pleased to notice is quite often. Sherlock looks like he wants to speak for ages before he does. 

Then he says, "That's a new shirt."

"What?"

"I've never seen it before."

Jesus. He'd bought the shirt that morning, a long stop between Tesco and the dry cleaners. "Sherlock, you were gone for two years. I bought new clothes while you were away, you know." Molly snorts. 

"Mm."

The music continues, and Molly leads him around the rug a few more times. 

"Stop. Stop, just, stop," Sherlock orders. They stop. John smiles at Molly as their hands fall away. 

"How did we do?" Molly asks with a hopeful smile. 

"Abysmal. I'm embarrassed for you both."

"Could have predicted that, eh?" John says, and Molly nods with a grin. Tom might be, well, whatever he is, but he's certainly made Molly more relaxed. 

John says, "All right, Professor Snape, help us improve. That's your job, isn't it?" He folds his arms and stares Sherlock down. Next to him, he can see Molly do the same. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes and sighs. "Fine. Begin again."

John turns and makes a little bow to Molly, who bows back, and they settle their arms and John counts _one-two-three_ to get them started again around the rug.

John isn't sure what he hopes will happen next, but it certainly isn't for Sherlock to stride towards them behind Molly, pulling her shoulders back. She stops and John stomps her toe as he does as well.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" 

"Like this," he says. Sherlock crams up behind Molly, adjusting her hands, elbows, reaching around John and placing his hand over Molly's on John's back, encircling both of their hands where they are held together, aligning his stance perfectly with Molly's, as if Molly isn't there between them. 

Molly has gone entirely still, her eyes are huge, staring at John in panic. He's not sure his expression is any more neutral, though he's trying. 

"Sherlock?"

"Feel that?" he asks Molly, as he subtly adjusts her hand against John's back, and John shivers all the way to his finger tips. She nods rapidly. "Good. Better. Now, ready, right foot first."

"What?" John says, without meaning to.

Over Molly's head, Sherlock meets his eyes. The moment seems long before Sherlock speaks. "Just one turn, John. To get the feel. Follow my lead."

"All three of us?"

"Find the tempo," Sherlock says, and then steps forward with the music, and Molly steps, and John steps too, just as his body is now used to, practice does work, and somehow the three of them complete several trips around the rug together, much more fluid and smooth with Sherlock leading them, even John can tell. Sherlock has a little smile on his face, one that just touches the edges of his lips and the corners of his eyes, and John stares at it thoughout.

"I…," Molly sputters, and John is just distracted enough to accidentally trod hard on her foot with his new shoes.

"Molly, sorry," John says, and he releases her and Sherlock at the same moment.

"I need to go," Molly finishes. "I should go."

"That was a vast improvement. Good." Sherlock turns his back and walks to the desk to retrieve his coffee mug. 

John leans down, places a hand on Molly's back. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Course I am." She stands up straight. "Helped, did I? Super." She taps her watch. "Look at the time. I've got to get going. Corpses won't autopsy themselves." Little laugh.

"Thank you Molly," Sherlock says from behind his coffee mug. 

"Say hello to Tom for us, won't you," John says as she gets her things and heads out the door. 

"I will. And you to Mary, John." She looks back at Sherlock, and so does John, but he's fussing with the iPod again, restarting the music. 

Footsteps down the stairs and the door slams. John watches her go.

"Shouldn't have asked her. She was giving you bad habits. Had to step in." 

John turns around to say something cutting, he's not sure what, words are arranging themselves in his mind, but when he turns Sherlock is there with his hand outstretched, eyes soft. 

John stops still. "What's that?"

"You didn't look at your feet once just now." Sherlock's hand is still there, such long fingers. "A little more practice and you'll have it."

John feels the frown on his face, hears his mind insisting he's finished with these lessons, he's learned enough, but his hand reaches out anyway, and Sherlock pulls him in. John gets a hand onto his shoulder just as Sherlock starts the first steps, no warning, just sweeping him away.

Dancing with Molly has done one valuable thing for John- given him something to compare to. Sherlock is not being patient or careful anymore, John can feel the change. The basic steps are there, and he can follow, but Sherlock adds turns, changes the pace a little, leans his body and gets John to lean with him. John has to hold on to keep up.

John only manages to look up at his face once, but Sherlock is not looking back at him. He's looking just over John's shoulder, his gaze far away. John wonders, not for the first time, what he's thinking about when he looks like that. 

The music ends, and Sherlock takes them through a final turn and then gently lets John go, just releases him, and John steps back and stares at his friend. Damn.

Sherlock clasps his hands together behind his back and looks away as he says, "The waltz, John." He smiles then, and meets John's eyes.

John grins too. "I've got it?"

"Baryshnikov would be proud."

John can't stop smiling, and neither can Sherlock it seems. Sherlock finally breaks the silence with, "Staying for dinner?"

"Sure, yes. Dinner. Chinese?"

Sherlock nods. "We can finalize the order for the boutonnieres."

John sits down to pull off the wedding shoes, slip his back on. "Sure. Okay."

"And arrange our next lesson."

John looks up at that. "Why? I thought I'd got it now?"

"Next lesson, you lead," Sherlock says, and he swings his coat around and on and snaps up the collar as he passes by John and trots down the stairs. 

_You lead._ Bollocks. John closes his eyes, takes a long breath, grabs his jacket, and follows.


	3. Entr'acte

John strides into Scotland Yard at a controlled clip, having learned the hard way that racing in rarely serves his purposes and generally gets him stopped and harassed. He wishes he had his gun.

 **Come to the Yard. Find Lestrade. Hurry. SH** Must be a case. At last. Sherlock is desperate for another case. John walks even faster. 

Donovan gives him a nod and a look as he passes her desk. A knowing look? A smirk? It lasts a moment too long. John wipes a hand across his mouth, hopes the remains of his lunch have not been there all afternoon. 

"John, thank god." Greg Lestrade, at his desk, hand deep in his hair, head hanging. "Get him out of here, please."

Sherlock is seated across the desk from him with his arms crossed, eyes closed, face pointed to the ceiling. 

"What's going on?" John asks. "Sherlock? You sent a text?"

Sherlock's eyes fly open. "Doesn't Mary have a friend called Beth?"

"Um, maybe?" John looks at Greg, who gestures wildly in some pantomime that John cannot interpret. "The text, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cranes his head back and looks at John upside-down. "Wouldn't know. Someone," and here his eyes move to Greg, "has confiscated my phone and sent you fraudulent texts on it." 

John looks at Greg. "You sent the text?"

Greg's mouth is pinched tight. He pulls Sherlock's phone from his pocket and slides it across the desk as he says, "John, take him home, I'm begging you."

"All right you two, knock it off. What is happening?" John's chest is still burning due to the run from the Tube to the Yard, and his patience is suddenly wafer thin. 

"Lestrade here has responded to your invitation, but claims he prefers to attend the wedding alone. It throws off the count at table three. I'm narrowing down some possibilities for him."

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock is trying to find me a date to your wedding, John." Greg says, with a god-help-me tilt of his head. 

John takes a deep breath, let's the tension fall out of his shoulders. "So, there's no case?"

"Only the case of the interfering arse who should mind his own bloody business," says Greg. 

Sherlock sits up suddenly and looks almost hurt, although John knows that must be an act. "I'm trying to help."

Movement behind them catches John's eye, then, and he turns just in time to see Donovan and Dimmock waltz past the doorway to Greg's office.

"What was that?"

"Oh, yeah, and you two might prefer to make yourself scarce in any event." Greg leans back and waves at Dimmock as the pair waltzes past again. "Seems a rumor has reached very interested ears that you've been taking dance lessons together."

John's heart ratchets up and he looks back and forth between Sherlock, who has casually turned to watch the spectacle past the doorway, and Greg, who has crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "I just settled my divorce, Sherlock. I don't want a date."

"His form is terrible." Sherlock is craning his neck to watch the waltzing couple with his critical eye. "Sergeant Donovan could be good if she took a moment to practice in the mirror." Then back to Greg. "This is not about what you want." 

John swallows hard. "Rumor from where?"

Greg seems to take pity on John then, rises and takes a seat on the corner of his desk. "I heard about it, and then accidentally let slip. Didn't mean to make an issue of it, but right now, I'm using whatever ammunition I have." He looks at John, and John looks back. "Take him out of here? Please?"

John nods. "Sherlock, let's go." He touches Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock looks at John's hand, then stands and settles his coat.

"I'll text you a list of possible candidates," Sherlock says to Greg.

"Fine. Do that. I'll be sure to ignore you." Greg ushers them out the door. "Sorry 'bout all this, John." 

John shakes his head, "No, no. It's fine. Talk to you soon," and then rushes off after Sherlock, who is halfway across the office already.

"Who leads, by the way? We've always wondered," Donovan calls out as she and Dimmock twirl past them. Two sergeants John knows from various crime scenes have joined in the waltz as well. As John and Sherlock dash by, someone behind them starts to hum _The Blue Danube_. John bites down on his response and follows Sherlock down the stairs and into the street.

Sherlock stops on the curb, wrapping his scarf and flipping his collar up. John stands beside him, simmering. "Molly would be ideal, of course, but she has that pesky fiancé."

"Jesus, Sherlock, forget Greg's date. Who is gossiping about us?" John snaps.

Sherlock is quiet, and John turns to find him gazing at him quite intently. "It bothers you."

John is caught for a moment in Sherlock's gaze, tries to sort what the last five minutes of his life have actually been about. Deep breath, through the nose, and then, "No." John means it, isn't sure what his anger is all about, but he knows it's not that. "No, it doesn't, Sherlock. No. It's fine."

"Good."

"Yes."

Pause and then a smile, Sherlock's real smile, right there on the curb outside New Scotland Yard. "It'll have been Mrs. Hudson though."

John grins as well, tries not to laugh. "Oh yes, definitely."

They snicker for a moment, side by side, and John feels a lightness he hasn't felt for months. 

"So, back to Baker Street?" John says suddenly. "I'm free this afternoon now. And since everyone knows about it anyway..."

Sherlock gives him a smirk, then looks away. "Care to walk?"

"I thought you only knew how to get around London by taxi."

"Through the park, then a taxi." Sherlock has already started walking, so John jogs to catch up. "And you have to admit Molly would be the perfect choice."

John settles into a comfortable stride next to Sherlock. "Yeah, except for the whole, marrying-another-bloke problem."

A pause. "Yes."

Sherlock spends most of their walk tossing out names for John to shoot down for poor Greg. When at last he gives in ("Let the man make his own choices, Sherlock. Besides, we’ll just move my cousin Jillian to the table to make up the missing person. She's coming alone." "Oh. Well that will be fine then.") they fall into a comfortable silence. The day is crisp and clear, the walk settling out the last of John's keyed-up nerves from his run to the Yard and their brush with Donovan. 

So, lesson. Leading this time, John thinks. In the quiet of their walk, John tries to envision the pattern of steps (he's been practicing, after Mary is asleep and John can't) from the opposite point of view. Imagines his hand on Sherlock's back, how their legs will fit, counts down to the first move. Hums a little.

John catches Sherlock looking at him more than once, as they walk, gaze probing, like he can see John's thoughts. John wonders, but smiles back and they keep walking. 

By the far end of the park, the silence between them shifts, is lingering. Sherlock's pace accelerates so John has to trot to keep up, and he starts craning his neck around to peer, frowning, at empty fields and pigeon-encrusted monuments. John looks around too, can't see what Sherlock sees. But then, he rarely can.

"Everything all right?" John says at last. 

Sherlock stops. They've reached the far gates. "Of course." 

"Yeah?"

A taxi pulls up. John opens the door to get in. 

Sherlock sniffs hard. John looks up, but Sherlock is looking out over the cab and far away. "I've just remembered. I can't do a lesson today."

"No?"

"No. I'm… not prepared."

John holds the door to the cab, steadying himself. "Oh. All right then." He indicates the open door. "Do you want to…?"

Sherlock interrupts. "No, sorry. I have something I need to do. I'll walk from here."

John stops, serious now. "Sherlock, what's going on? What's happened?"

"Nothing, John. It's fine." He pulls his collar up against the breeze and looks John in the eye. "We'll reschedule. I'll text. I assure you it will be me this time." Smiles, but John can see it's forced.

"No more harassing Lestrade," John says, trying to be light, to regain the lightness, as he gets into the taxi. 

"No. You're right. No point." His voice is far away.

"I'll see you soon, Sherlock." Through the open window. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"I'll text." Sherlock walks away, fast, and doesn’t look back.

When the cabbie asks, "Where to?" John doesn't have the slightest idea what to say.


	4. Third Lesson

The text, when it comes eleven hours later (Mary turns over and groans, "Manners, Sherlock," when the text alerts beeps on John's phone. It's one a.m.) says **Baker Street, 6 p.m.**. John reads through sleep-blurred eyes, then drops the phone and collapses back to bed. 

He covers an eight-hour shift the next day, until five o'clock, and it's a long stream of minor maladies that blur into a headache around two. John watches the clock and keeps his wedding shoes under his desk all day. Mary stops in with her coat on, bag in hand, to plant a kiss on his cheek as she heads out for an evening with the girls. 

It's drizzly, gray, and getting dark when John arrives at Baker Street. John can hear Mrs. Hudson singing along to Shakira from her flat. He grins and leaps up the stairs. On time. Pulls his shoes out from under his damp jacket. 

"Sherlock?" John peers in the kitchen door entrance. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, so John steps into the kitchen, drops his shoes on the table. "Got your…text…" Then his voice falters.

All of the furniture in the sitting room has been pushed aside, chairs on top of desks, tables tucked in corners or teetering on the sofa, massive piles of books in the archway to the kitchen, and the rug rolled up against the two desks, leaving a large empty stretch of wood floor in the middle of the room. On the floor, in what appears to be paint, is drawn an intricate set of footprints and arrows.

"John, good." Sherlock appears from down the corridor, wiping his hands on a towel. He's obviously just showered and changed, but John can see where he's missed a tell-tale streak of white paint on his neck. 

"Sherlock, what is this?"

"Your dance. With Mary." His arms make a wide sweep, displaying his handiwork.

John shakes his head. "No. You didn't."

Sherlock walks in amongst the pattern on the floor. "Just a diagram, John."

John tries to take in the complex illustration on the floor. Can't. "Has Mrs. Hudson seen this?"

Sherlock looks at John quizzically, and nope, he obviously hasn't even considered her. "Why would she need to see it?"

John sighs and starts to remove his coat. "Great. So I'm here for a dance lesson and then an all-nighter helping you clean this up."

"The rug will cover it."

"Sherlock."

He ignores John and tosses his towel onto the pile of detritus stacked on the sofa. "As you practice, be aware that this floor is smaller than your actual dance floor by two meters on this side. Shouldn't affect you, but just in case."

"Sherlock." 

"You start here," Sherlock stands on two of the footprints, clearly labeled _Start_ , "then simply move in the pattern indicated by the arrows." He steps to the next footprint, marked _2_ , then _3_. 

"Sherlock."

"This is a pattern of forty-eight steps, which will take you on a full circuit of the dance floor and back to the start. Then you can repeat." Sherlock is holding his arms in position as he moves through the painted steps without looking. 

"Sherlock, stop this. Stop." Voice louder than he means it to be.

Sherlock stops and looks attentively at John, his arms still held in position. 

John's pulse is heavy in his throat. "Sherlock. This is a ridiculous way to learn how to dance."

Sherlock's expression shifts, just for a moment, looks almost pained. "It's not."

"No, Sherlock, it is."

Sherlock drops his arms. "This is how I learned."

Jesus. John closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, takes a moment to imagine what lies in wait for Sherlock's parents when they roll up the carpets someday. God. John allows himself to feel it for a moment, just a moment, how much he loves this madman.

"All right. Okay," John almost laughs, lets out a long breath, opens his eyes. "First things first. Have you slept?"

"I don't know. What time is it?" 

"Six o'clock." Then John adds, "In the evening."

"Then, no."

"Eaten?"

"Not hungry."

"So, this is what is going to happen." John pulls out his phone. "I'm calling in an order for take-away. You are going to put on your shoes and coat and go pick it up. Then you are going to sit where I can see you and eat some of it, so we'll get the walnut prawns because you love those. Then you are taking off your shoes and getting into your bed."

Sherlock starts to speak but John cuts him off. "In the meantime, I'll be out here, learning my steps." Sherlock looks at him then, eyebrows pinched, and John nods. "So get moving, I have a lot of studying to do."

Tony at the Chinese place picks up the phone then, so Sherlock is relegated to silently finding and putting on his shoes and coat. John watches the entire process as he orders, just to be sure. 

"Extra soy," John calls out as Sherlock trots down the stairs. Then he stands on _Start_ in his stocking feet. 

The first try through Sherlock's diagram is endless, John turning left and right trying to see where he's to step next, and with which foot, tripping over himself and thankful that he is alone. The second try, and he starts to feel the one-two-three of it, the box step from the lead position, the going forward instead of back. Halfway through the third try, and he can hear Sherlock returning up the stairs, the familiar crinkle of the take-away bag. John soldiers on to the end of the pattern, even when he knows Sherlock is there in the kitchen, watching him. 

"Well?" John says.

Sherlock is unpacking the food containers. "Well, what? Keep practicing."

"Fine. Start eating."

John keeps one eye, when he can, on Sherlock, who seems to be inhaling the container of walnut prawns. John keeps going. 

A few minutes pass, Sherlock is leaning against the archway to the kitchen, arms crossed, just watching for a moment. He says, "Don't forget, shoulders down and back straight," and then he slips off down the corridor to his room and shuts the door. 

John makes it to the end of the pattern once more, then stops and has a seat at the kitchen table for a few bites of sesame chicken. Sherlock has left him one prawn. John smiles. He texts Mary. **With Sherlock. Might be quite late.** She texts back in a few minutes, **Be good. If the bad guy shoots, please duck.**

Hours pass. John alternates between practicing the dance sequence and playing solitaire on his phone while nibbling at the remaining food. Each time he starts the dance again, he feels a little more confident, tries it once with his arms up in position, attempts not looking at his feet for several steps in a row. There's a tricky turn that Sherlock's included, so he spends some time just doing that sequence over and over again until he can look up and not miss a footprint. He gives himself a tempo ( _one-two-three_ ) and tries the entire dance through (looking mostly at the clock, which reveals it is almost midnight) and he only falters twice. He smiles to himself, rubs his sore neck, and then looks up to see Sherlock, framed in the dark of the corridor, watching. 

"Damn! Christ, don't do that," John says, clutching his chest. His heart. "How long have you been there?"

"Not long."

"You could have said."

Sherlock has obviously slept in his clothes. He's a rumpled mess, hair flattened on one side, shirt tails loose, belt still on. He shrugs. "Not a ridiculous way to learn, is it."

"No," John agrees. "It's not." Sherlock snorts, so John continues. "You, however, _are_ ridiculous."

"Am I?" 

"Yes. Absolutely _ridiculous_." Sherlock frowns and John grins. "Will you try it once through with me? I think I can do it."

Sherlock doesn't move for a long moment, stands there looking thoughtfully at John from the darkness. Then, "Fine," and he strides out to stand by the _Start_.

"Great. Good." John walks over in front of him, stretching his shoulders and rubbing his hands together, letting out a deep breath. "Okay, yes. So." He gives his upper body one more good shake as Sherlock looks on, an amused little smirk on his face. "Shut up and raise your arms."

"I hope you don't talk to your bride like that," Sherlock remarks, raising one hand for John to hold, the other covering John's shoulder in warmth. John grabs on, trying not to think too hard, finds Sherlock's shoulder blade, lets his hand get a firm place there. 

"All right. Okay." John meets Sherlock's eyes and takes one more settling breath. Sherlock has lined his feet up perfectly, so that their legs will slot together as they should when John starts them moving. So. There's that. "Okay. On my count. One-two-three…" 

John can feel how stiff he is, how he doesn't quite have the feel of directing Sherlock through the steps, but Sherlock goes with him anyway, lets him try. They lurch around the floor, banging knees and toes, following the path of footprints.

Back to _Start_ and John lets out a satisfied breath as he releases Sherlock from his grasp. "There."

"That was horrible." But Sherlock can't hide the smile in his eyes, and John sees it.

"I know, but I did it."

"You need hours more of practice."

"Yes, but I did it."

"Only in a manner of…"

"No. Stop. Fine. Hands back up, you arse." John grabs Sherlock and starts a count, "One-two-three, one-two-three," into another round of the steps, this time trying not to think at all, just do what he's practiced all night. Sherlock flails for a moment, then his hand finds John's shoulder again, and his other hand tightens in John's grip. 

It’s better this time, John feels more in control, he can look up and meet Sherlock's (slightly shocked) gaze, even through the tricky turn bit, and it's good, it feels good. Bloody great. 

They get to the end of the sequence, and John doesn't let go. "There."

Sherlock's hands don't move either. "Better."

"Yes."

Should have said something else, John realizes, because they are suddenly stranded in the middle of the floor, Sherlock's manic artwork surrounding them, breaths matching, quiet for several beats too long. John feels it and lets go just as Sherlock does the same. 

John turns away, heads to the sofa and starts to fold the towel that's still lying there. "Good. So. It's late."

"Is it?"

"Do you really have no plans to clean up this mess?"

"John, please. There's solvent in the kitchen. Don't you want the diagram for practice?"

John turns and faces Sherlock, who is still standing where John left him in the middle of the floor. "I've learned it. I won't forget. You're a bloody good teacher." Sherlock gives him a skeptical look, so John adds, "I've taken pictures with my phone."

Sherlock smiles and gazes down for a long moment at what John knows must be hours and hours of his detailed, painstaking work, then up at John. "Hands and knees then. I'll get the rubber gloves."

John bites at his lower lip and grins. "Glad Mrs. Hudson didn't overhear that one."

Sherlock doesn't laugh, just raises one eyebrow and stalks away to the kitchen. Something roils low in John's gut, and he's suddenly glad, very glad, that their next few hours of toxic paint removal have already been accounted for. He rolls up his sleeves, and follows.


	5. Final Lesson

"The trousers are still too long." John shouts down from the top of the stairs.

"There should be one significant break in their line, just above your ankles." Sherlock's voice calls back from very far away, he must still be in his bedroom, finishing dressing as well. "I thought they altered the length after the last fitting."

John looks down at the gray of his trouser legs, sagging hopelessly over the tops of his wedding shoes (broken in now, he's practiced dancing every night). "Not enough."

"Come down."

John adjusts his lapels and glances once more in the mirror by the door. His old room is empty of furniture now, only a few overflow stacks of Sherlock's flotsam and jetsam fill the space he once occupied. The emptiness is reflected in the mirror surrounding the strange vision of himself as he will look tomorrow. Tomorrow, as he gets married. John smiles at the thought.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is closer now, he must be dressed and in the sitting room. 

"The rest looks fine, I think," John says as he heads down the stairs, a bit self-conscious to be wandering the flat dressed like a groom, wonders for a moment if it is all right for Sherlock to see him like this before tomorrow. 

Final steps down and, Jesus. Sherlock is waiting in the middle of the room in his formal gear, hands clasped behind his back, the sun streaming in the windows, and damn if he doesn't look at ease- as if, John thinks, he gets married every other week. Or is a Best Man, rather, of course. Everything that looks formal and forced about the morning coat and too-long trousers on John looks perfectly at home and settled on Sherlock. It's enormously unfair. John pauses at the bottom of the stairs, staring. 

"Yours fits," John says at last. 

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down at himself for a moment, then frowns. "Yes, yes. It's fine." He strides forward giving John's entire ensemble his most prying and critical eye, and John steps back to keep his balance. 

"Trousers definitely too long, but not as bad as I was imagining," Sherlock says, kneeling down in front of John and tugging at the cuffs of his trousers. "The fit is acceptable on the rest."

"Is it?"

Sherlock stands and steps back, cocks his head to the side and looks at John for a long moment. "Yes." Then he returns to his knee and fusses with the cuffs again, hands all over John's ankles. "What time is it?"

John looks behind himself at the clock (well within Sherlock's line of sight, for god's sake). "Almost three."

"It's too late now. They can't be properly tailored by tomorrow."

"They can't?"

"Not properly."

"Sod properly, Sherlock, I just don’t want to trip over my trouser legs as I dance. Don't you have some sort of emergency tailoring service?"

Sherlock's fussing gets more focused. He stands and regards John's feet, then kneels to complete his work on the other leg. "They can be tacked up tonight."

"Christ, you do have an emergency tailor," John mutters, but he's relieved. He's entirely too occupied with getting married to deal with finding someone to stitch up his wedding trousers, and really, he needs Sherlock to stop touching his ankles now.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock stands once more and gives John a final approving look. 

John sees it then, how much it means to Sherlock that John look just right tomorrow, and warmth spreads through his chest as he realizes, "You are going to hem my trousers yourself, aren't you?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and says nothing, then looks away and strides over to the window.

John shakes his head. "Of course you know how to sew. Let me guess. You mastered it between throwing pots and making macramé plant hangers."

"Macramé?" Sherlock tugs the curtain closed. "No, that's Mycroft." He gives John the mildest of smirks.

John lets out a laugh then, and Sherlock does as well, with that big smile that John gets to see so rarely (last at the stag night, the fire, with rizlas) and it makes the warm feeling spread, right to John's fingertips. "What are you doing?" John asks, as Sherlock throws the second curtain closed, shutting out the afternoon light. 

"I don't want you to trip over your trouser legs either." He steps to the middle of the room and holds out a hand. "Final lesson?"

All of the warmth in John flares hot and then freezes. 

"Or not," Sherlock says, dropping his hand back to his side.

"No. Yes. Of course. One more practice. Good idea." John moves onto the rug. "I've gone over the steps." Every night, for hours.

"Good."

"So." John holds up his arms and Sherlock moves in to take his hand. The new wool of their suits and the herbal scent of Sherlock's hair tonic co-mingle in the air around them.

"Bit more stiff when we're dressed like this," John says. 

"That's why I thought you should. Get a feel for it."

"Right." 

John tries to get his hand to sit properly on Sherlock's back, flexes his fingers, thinks the word _nonchalant_. There's nothing to do then but count off _one-two-three_ , ("Slower, John.") _one-two-three_. and then lead Sherlock around the rug in the pattern of steps now deeply imprinted into John's muscle memory. 

It's over quickly, all forty-eight steps, correct and proper, and then John lets go, and Sherlock lets him because honestly. Honestly.

"John."

"What?" John needs to be done with this, he has a list of errands, and Auntie Lane is arriving in an hour, and his trousers are still too long. 

"I…" That quiet tone in Sherlock's voice, not to be ignored. John turns to listen, hard. 

Sherlock is looking at him. "There's something I've made for you." His face is very still.

John tries to laugh it off, that look. "You see, knotted string. I always suspected. Mycroft, my arse."

Sherlock turns his back and fiddles with the iPod. Music starts. Violin, alone.

"What's this? Is this you?" 

Sherlock, back still turned. "For you. And Mary. For the dance. Your dance."

John listens, and he can't look at Sherlock, Sherlock, who was dead, who he mourned for _years_ , and who is standing here now in a morning coat and gray trousers and shoes that match John's, and who has written music, for him. A heaviness settles into John's chest, he feels unaccountably sad. "You're going to play at the wedding."

"Yes. You see," pointed look at John, " _Mary_ asked me."

"Damn. Sorry. Yes, I should have thought of that."

"Please, John." Rolls eyes. John's feeling lightens for a moment. "Wedding plans are not your area."

Smile, true. "No, I suppose not." John looks up at the ceiling for a moment, holding on to his smile, and just listens to Sherlock play. "This is really nice." Closes his eyes in the calm familiar of Baker Street, lets the moment seep into his skin.

When John looks back, Sherlock holds out his hand, serious and formal. "It's not easy to dance to."

"Not easy to…great. Thanks. You couldn't make it easy." John just looks at Sherlock's long, clever fingers. 

"No, never," Sherlock says, and John breathes deep and then grabs that hand. _Don't think._ Without further discussion, Sherlock takes the lead, John's own hand firmly settled on the fine wool of Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's warm palm solid against the small of John's back. 

"Find the tempo," Sherlock says, and his fingers tap against John's back, _one-two-three_ , and John has to look at Sherlock's shoulder, the fascinating gray of the wool, because he can't look anywhere else. With a gentle motion, Sherlock sets them off across the floor. 

It's not the dance John has learned, not the prescribed steps for his dance with Mary. This is just dancing, dancing together, led by Sherlock, all around the room. Sherlock's long legs move them in smooth lines and curves, the plaintive notes of Sherlock's violin guiding them slowly along, warm breaths and hands and legs brushing and the strangeness of their formal wear and the patterns of the wallpaper all swirling together until it is all reduced to the simple _one-two-three, one-two-three_ of the music and the feeling of Sherlock's hand in his. 

It's a long time, or perhaps John cannot tell how many minutes have really passed while they move together through the room, but it feels long, like a lifetime. Then, abruptly, Sherlock's body changes shape and stiffens, his hands shift, and John finds himself off-balance and looking at the ceiling. It takes all of his self-control to not shove Sherlock away and punch him in the face.

"What the hell?"

"A dip, John." Sherlock says, his face inches away from John's, eyes stormy gray today. 

"Dip." Oh Jesus. His face is right there, his eyes, mouth. _one-two-three_. Swallow hard. "Well, warn me, next time," John says. _Next time._ John needs to stop, now, digs his fingers in to pull himself upright, because Mary, and Auntie Lane, and fifty-seven guests, and trousers that need a hem.

Sherlock lets him up, and the swirl and the tempo are gone, dissipated out of the room as quickly as they had come. Sherlock mutters, "It's a crowd pleaser," and John tries to find his feet again. The room is so dim and close, John starts to sweat in his wedding clothes, damn, and the warmth of Sherlock's hand is still cooling on his back. 

John turns to the window, strides over, and pulls the curtains open, letting the light back in. 

"You'll want to practice that last part with Mary." Sherlock is at the iPod, and the music stops. The room is very quiet.

"Yeah, I will." John manages the other curtain as well, so he can breathe again. "Listen, I'm just going to go up and change. Mary will be here soon. Can't have her seeing me looking like this."

Sherlock looks appraisingly at John's clothing once more. "No. Don't forget to leave the trousers." 

At the stairs, John takes a moment, turns back. "Sherlock. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Sherlock's smile again, the real one, but small, and quick. "You haven't heard my speech."

John's pulse quickens for a moment, then he nods and heads up the stairs. "Good point." Doesn't look back. 

*

Ten minutes later, in the car, turning the corner and leaving Baker Street, Mary says, "Everything all right?"

John looks at her, smiles brightly, shakes his head, says, "Why wouldn't it be?" Keeps on driving.


End file.
